Our room is a narrow, twisting ramp into mental hell. We kneel penitentially in ashes and sackcloth by day and in sin by night. It's almost morning when Tyler's key jingles in the lock. I hide behind the door. He was naked to the waist, black fat streaked his flesh, his right hand glinted in the light. We share a bed and dreams... engines pulsing between our legs, our bodies all hard and metallic. “Are you using?” I grab his arm and twist it to reveal a gleaming metal hand transformed into a living remnant of steel. The drug takes your money first and then your flesh slowly. He grabs a jug of water with his metal hand and drinks. "It's not an artifact, just a dream. Tomorrow it will be gone." "" No, you agree. I didn't. I have bigger dreams, war machines... cannons, tanks, troop transports, gunboats that I can kick whenever I want. Tyler drinks a second glass of water, sipping. His hand becomes flesh and blood again. Rehydration causes dizziness and tremors. He clings to my shoulder to calm himself, his chest warm and hard against mine. “Let's keep doing this, we're doomed,” I open his jeans and let my hands roam his body. Sex, my false hope. My bulwark against fate, my act of rebellion. Don't stay human and continue to abuse drugs. It's the last step down. We fall onto the bed and he never sleeps. But I can't sleep. My sweaty back sticks to the sheets a string of crimes calls babblers from the police scanner. Too many cyclists fused with bikes, brains and bodies in a metal embrace, riding, crashing, burning, dying, metallic fools remembered not in graves but in burn-scarred concrete and... ..half the paper. .. major cannon, X-ray death rays and the latest telemetry equipment Tyler is alive, vital and integrated with his team in ways that would be impossible if we remained together. He found honor, value and respect. On that day, silence is the best part of wisdom. I will talk on the radio with an anonymous voice and hide my ID card under the latest sniper armor. I want no one to find me, cry for me. I don't need family, I don't need friends, I have no sins to confess. MetalCrank created me, the ultimate weapon. My life's achievements will be a spectacular list of unexplained deaths that will never be less than Top Secret, Eyes Only. This is what a sniper does. It is an age-old profession. His legacy will always be a sudden and unexpected death. In the last great war on Earth they gave me a name, a name for my kind of war. I am Ratten Kreig. It's my life.